“A quiet sunday afternoon, the last day of smmer. In his room at No 18, a nervous young man is storing his things: a small clay figure, covert photographs of his neighbours, pieces of urban junk. Two doors down, a
and to meetthrough rose tinted glassthrowing emotions into blur edged vision. and to meetin the verses of a songjust to sing one last chorus. and to meetto touch fingertipsand wonder why we’re really here. and to meetto see the shape
At precisely eight fifteen tonight the world shall start to go wrong, and all the dreams that we might have shared, shall be stained by each sad song. But you could hide in my secret poem, skip across the words
and i can see howthe shrapnel of our emotionschanges the world around us. and bits get damagedas reality caves in at timesto the delusions we choose. we filter out thesynesthetic sounds of dreamsand are left with mere b/w. we become
